


I will always have you

by ThatAj



Series: like mercury [2]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: 1 time Armie was sick, 5 times Timmy was sick, 5+1 Things, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, did I mention pure! naked! hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 11:03:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22579864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatAj/pseuds/ThatAj
Summary: Five times Timmy got sick and one time Armie did.Nothing dramatic, no major angst, basically pure domestic hurt/comfort.Part of the Flo's Shows AU universe but you may not need to read Flo's to understand what's happening here.
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer
Series: like mercury [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1565623
Comments: 33
Kudos: 75





	I will always have you

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Anything, Anywhere by Melissa Ferrick (as is the title of this series)

Timmy sneezes. Again. That’s at least the seventh sneeze this hour, by Armie’s count. Armie glances over at him where he’s sat at the dining room table on his laptop working on the shift schedule for Flo’s Shows. Timmy’s eyes are red and there’s a flush on his cheeks and around his nose and Armie knows, he _knows,_ that he shouldn’t find Timmy beautiful, more beautiful, like this but goddamnit, he’s gorgeous. It just works, okay?

_“Achoum!”_ Armie also finds Timmy sneezing with a little Gallic pout totally endearing. 

“Eight,” Armie calls from his position on the couch in the living room, where he’s stretched out on the couch, laptop also open, working on payroll for Flo’s. 

“Wazzthat?” Timmy calls back, his voice nasally with congestion.

“Eight. That’s the eighth time you’ve sneezed in the last hour,” Armie clarifies. He tilts his head back over the arm of the couch and squints at upside down Timmy, who gives a nonchalant shrug. 

“Allergies,” Timmy offers. 

“That is not allergies.”

“We haven’t vacuumed in a few days, it’s the dust.” Timmy pauses and revises, “I haven’t vacuumed in a few days.”

Armie frowns at that. Neither of them have ever lived with a partner before and negotiating things like chores feels different, _is_ different, with a lover is different than those same conversations when you’re living with friends. It’s more weighty, it carries with it implications, meaning, for the future, for their dynamics, for how they see each other and how each of them want to be seen and the distance between how they want to be seen and the penetrative gaze of real love. Real love peels back the facade and sees the real person and isn’t that just the stop-you-in-your-tracks, wake-you-up-at-night, scariest thing ever? 

They have only been living with each other for a few weeks at this point. 

A few weeks since they were sharing a pizza from Nap’s (short for Napoli’s - the only pizza that Timmy claims comes close to a New York City slice and therefore the only pizza he will order even though they have to pay more for delivery because Armie’s house, as it was still just Armie’s house at the time, was just outside their delivery zone) half plain cheese for Timmy and half meat-lover’s for Armie. A few weeks since Timmy chewed and swallowed and picked up his bottle of Black Dog cider, which Nick had shipped to them after he learned of Timmy’s love of sour beers, and paused, his lips still shiny with pizza grease, and looked at Armie and said, “I’ve been sorta thinking that maybe we should live together?”

A few weeks since Armie had been planning to take Timmy out for a nice dinner at the place near campus that does that baked brie and pear dish that Timmy loves and makes the fancy cocktails that Armie appreciates and present Timmy with a key to his house on an engraved silver key ring (from Tiffany’s, Liz’s suggestion, noting the cultural significance of that light blue pouch) and ask him, with a bit of a planned and rehearsed speech, to move in with him. 

Timmy had then lifted his cider and took a long swallow and Armie became distracted watching his throat. Timmy had held the bottle up in front of his mouth to try to hide his smile, while he arched a single eyebrow to place the question in bolded italics as it hung there between them. 

Armie had been chewing his pizza when Timmy spoke and had paused, the pizza turning to soggy bread and congealed cheese in his mouth. At Timmy’s raised eyebrow he hurried to finish chewing and to swallow, ignoring the soft lumpy texture that made him want to gag, and met Timmy’s eyes. “Yes, that would be, yes.” 

So now they’re living together. But it wasn’t that easy. It wasn’t hard either, the way some people say “living together is hard.” No, it was more, first Timmy asking, “Are you sure?”

“I mean you practically live here already.” And Armie had rolled his eyes in a move that was so very Timmy-esque it emphasized his point. 

Timmy glanced around at his belongings everywhere and back to Armie, “Yeah, but that’s not a reason to make a major life decision.” 

It was Armie confessing that he had been planning to ask Timmy anyway and Timmy tossing his pizza crust in the box and jumping onto Armie’s lap and throwing his arms around his neck. 

It was learning there’s a difference between being, or having, a semi-permanent houseguest and actually living together. 

It was finding places on bookshelves and deciding what to do with duplicate copies of the same book. It was finally setting up the sound system Armie had given Timmy in Armie’s home as he always imagined it would be. 

It was learning that Armie squeezes the toothpaste from the middle of the tube and that Timmy leaves kitchen cabinet doors open. It was Armie’s dirty boxer briefs that never made it all the way into the laundry hamper. 

It was Timmy printing out photos from Christmas and hanging them around the house one day while Armie was at work. It was Timmy’s socks accumulating at the end of the bed where he would kick them off in his sleep. It was Armie never hitting “clear” on the microwave when he took something out before it was done. 

It was Armie starting to stock the pantry with Oreos and Cape Cod potato chips even though he preferred chocolate chip cookies and Ruffles because he knew those were Timmy’s favorites. It was Timmy leaving pistachio shells between the couch cushions. 

It was neither of them remembering rinse empty bottles, giving the recycling bin a permanent smell of stale beer. It was learning that Timmy doesn’t mind vacuuming and Armie feels some weird satisfaction from cleaning the bathrooms. And learning that neither likes doing the laundry and Timmy will unload the dishwasher but hates putting away the flatware and no matter how Timmy loads the dishwasher, Armie will take everything out and redo it because “it’s more efficient this way.” 

It’s trying to figure out how much of the mortgage Timmy should pay (Armie thought none of it, Timmy thought fifty percent; they settled on fifty percent) and how to manage paying for things like groceries and toilet paper and new towels after an accidental bleach spill that Timmy still apologizes for even though Armie always reassures him it’s _fine_ and he was not attached to those towels. 

It’s Armie knowing that Timmy is sick before Timmy is willing to acknowledge it. 

The next morning Armie gets up with his alarm while Timmy sleeps through. Timmy can sleep through anything except coffee and that one night he woke up to Armie’s muffled crying behind the bathroom door.

When Timmy doesn’t come down stairs when the coffee is brewing, Armie smirks. He smirks all while pouring Timmy’s coffee into a mug and walking it upstairs and putting it on the bedside table. By the time Timmy cracks open one eye, Armie has wiped the smirk from his face. It is bad form to say “I told you so” in any situation but perhaps especially when your boyfriend is sick. 

Plus Timmy beats him to it. “I guess it’s not allergies.” Which sounds like “I guess it’s _nob_ allergies” due to his congestion. And that warms a place in Armie’s heart he hadn’t realized existed before this very moment. 

“I guess not,” Armie smiles warmly at him, his eyes crinkling around the corners. “What can I get you? I have, I think I have some Dayquil or Theraflu or something. Liz made sure my medicine cabinet was stocked when I moved in but I forget what all is in there.” 

Timmy shakes his head while burrowing somehow even deeper under the duvet until just a few curls are visible on his pillow. “No, no, I’ll be, I can grab something if I need it. I’ll be fine.” Armie stood there for a moment silently. What was proper protocol here? Get ready and go to work like usual or… Rationally. Rationally he knew Timmy was an adult. Had lived on his own. Had been sick without Armie there. But standing there next to passed out Timmy makes his stomach clench. Timmy is not a morning person by anyone’s standards; Armie knew that before he officially moved in. But once he is awake, and especially once he is awake and caffeinated, he is a whirling ball of chaotic energy that rarely slows down until he falls asleep at night. Seeing him fatigued like this pushes into a spot below just below Armie’s ribs in a way that’s not entirely pleasant. 

“I guess we shouldn’t have done that naked weekend in the middle of winter,” Armie says, just to have something to say. To fill the silence while he figures out what to do. 

“Armie, you get sick from germs, not from being cold,” Timmy’s muffled voice comes from deep within the duvet.

“What are you, a public service announcement?” Armie’s eyes crinkle at the corners, while he tries not to grin. No sense in encouraging the kid with his endless trove of facts. 

A few slender pale fingers sneak out from the top of the duvet and wave vaguely in Armie’s direction. “Go Armie, I’ll be fine. Go. Don’t be late.” 

Armie shrugs to himself and continues to get ready to leave until he hears Timmy’s muffled, congested voice. “Well, maybe you could just make me some toast...please?”

Armie pauses and bites back a smile. “Sure...butter?” 

He sees the duvet move but can’t tell if Timmy is nodding or shaking his head until he hears “Butter...and apricot jam...please?” 

Before Armie dashes downstairs to make the toast, he sneaks a hand inside the duvet and feels Timmy’s forehead, which is burning up. When he returns with the toast, with the butter and jam spread exactly to the edge of the crusts but not over, the way Timmy prefers it, he includes two tablets of Advil, a steaming mug of Theraflu, and an insulated water bottle filled with iced water. He places the tray on the bed beside the lump that is Timmy. 

The tray he bought shortly after he and Timmy agreed to live together but before Timmy officially moved in. He bought the tray imagining breakfasts in bed which didn’t materialize the way he imagined they would based on romantic comedies he had watched over the years. He had never lived with a partner before. No one he’s close to has before. He knew movies are unrealistic but what else does he have to go on? 

As it turns out they do plenty of eating in bed. None of it requiring a tray. 

At the feeling of the mattress shifting beside him, Timmy pokes his head out from under the duvet, his cheeks a bit flushed and his curls matted to his head. He takes in everything all laid out and shakes his head slightly. 

“Now really, how do you feel?” Armie asks, his voice firm and deep. 

“Armie, you didn’t have to - I’m an adult, I can take care of myself,” Timmy’s face twists up in indignation which does little to lend itself to the argument that he’s an adult. 

“Tim,” Armie sighs. “Are we really going to go through a whole thing about accepting help or will you just shut up and let me take care of my sick boyfriend?”

Timmy pouts but his expression softens. 

“Now, how do you feel?”

“Everything hurts,” Timmy whispers and with his congestion it’s barely audible. 

“Yeah,” Armie sighs in resigned confirmation. “You have the flu. Eat a little bit, hydrate, take these meds, and rest.”

Timmy looks up at Armie from under hooded eyes and through his long eyelashes in a vague attempt at a seductive look. “Yes sir.”

“You,” Arnie’s voice rumbles.

“What can I say, you’re sexy when you’re bossy,” Timmy croaks out. He makes a half-hearted grab at Arnie’s crotch, which Armie easily side steps as Timmy is moving in slow motion, although his cock is hardening in Pavlovian response and does it make him a terrible human to be turned on even when his boyfriend is sick in bed? 

He shakes his head a little and chuckles. He really does need to get to work. He should go. Now. If he’s going to be on time. Which he always is. Usually even a few minutes early. So if he’s a few minutes late today, who would be upset? Who would even comment on it? And he has an excuse. Timmy is sick. Timmy is sick and lying there flushed, eyes glazed, and looking positively wrecked. 

Yes, it’s confirmed. Armie is going straight to hell for coveting thy sick boyfriend. 

He restrains himself at work and does not ask Timmy for selfies. He restrains himself at work and only texts once an hour to check in on how Timmy is doing and tells himself that it’s good, it’s fine, that Timmy is too sleepy to text back more than “k” or a sleepy emoji. He restrains himself at work and only makes Timmy get on FaceTime during Armie’s lunch hour so he can check on him and watch him drink more water and take more medication and just generally reassure himself that it was okay to leave Timmy home alone today. He watches him carefully as he totters like a newborn colt into the kitchen to make more toast and get more water. Watches him carefully as his fever paints a blush on his regal cheekbones and the jam from the toast coats his lips in a gloss. Watches him as he licks the jam from his lips. Watches him as he licks his lips each time before he sips his water. 

Armie decides restraint is for the weak and locks himself in the single stall bathroom at work, fumbles with his belt but quickly has his work trousers pulled down to his thighs and his hand wrapped around his length fast and rough, standing over the sink, his free hand holding himself up on the wall, and grateful that the mirror is tipped forward to permit wheelchair users to see themselves and so he can’t look at himself in the face. Because jerking off to one’s ill boyfriend is a level of sex positivity Armie has not yet achieved. Because jerking off to one’s sick boyfriend while at work is a level of sex positivity Armie is not sure he even wants to achieve. So yes Armie is glad the mirror is tilted so he can’t see his face. 

Armie learns, after he texts to ask Timmy if there’s anything he can get him on the way home, that Timmy wants Gatorade and saltines when he’s sick. Even if he is sick with the flu, not a stomach bug. Armie learns, the hard way, that Timmy really likes red Gatorade over other flavors when he brought home lemon-lime Gatorade because he thought it was a nice innocuous flavor for someone who might nauseous and Timmy looks at him with puffy red rimmed eyes, his cheeks red with fever, and a fine layer of sweat on his forehead and says, “No it’s okay. I’ll drink it. It’s just that red is my favorite.” 

Armie pours him a glass of sub-par lemon-lime gatorade and stacks a plate with saltines and brings it to him on the couch where he was clearly camped out all day after Armie left that morning. He’s wearing an old hoodie of Armie’s that used to be navy blue but had turned purple after being bleached by the sun and faded from washing. He’s wrapped in a blanket his grandmother had crocheted and which Pauline had shipped to them from France as a housewarming gift. 

Armie sits on one end of the couch and pulls Timmy’s feet into his lap. As Timmy nibbles the saltines and sips the Gatorade, Armie rubs Timmy’s feet, digging his thumbs into his high arches and the meaty part of his big toe. Timmy squirms a bit and Armie whispers, “Shhh, relax, let me.” Liz had taken a reflexology course a few years ago and had practiced on Armie and Nick. Armie never knew how much of it was legitimate but he digs into the parts of the foot he thinks have to do with immunity and after a few moments he feels Timmy give in to the sensations. He places a kiss on the top of the foot where Timmy’s skin is impossible smooth. It shouldn’t be so smooth and soft, the skin on the top of his foot, but it is somehow and Armie is always surprised by it when Timmy shoves his feet against Armie’s calves when they’re cuddled in bed together. 

Armie glances over and sees Timmy’s eyes flutter shut and then open wide and then flutter shut again. The plate in his hand, now with just crumbs remaining, tilting dangerously toward the floor. Armie grabs the plate from Timmy and places it on the coffee table. 

“Okay you,” Armie says as he starts to unwrap Timmy from within his grandmother’s blanket. “Time for bed.” 

Timmy’s eye startle open. “What? No. It’s so early, you just got home!” 

“Timmy, babe, you need sleep.” 

“I’ve done nothing but sleep all day.”

“Good, that’s what your body needs, obviously, now up with you, bed.” Timmy pouts. “Don’t make me carry you.” Timmy pouts harder and Armie has to hold back a smile. He sighs and wraps an arm under Timmy’s arms and another under his knees and lifts. Timmy immediately throws his arms around Armie’s neck and snuggles into being held. Armie thinks to himself that if there’s ever a day when he’s struggling with motivation to go to the gym, he should think back on this moment. He wants to be able to pick Timmy up like this for the rest of his life, or for as long as Timmy will grant him the privilege. 

He doesn’t even stop in that moment to think about how the phrase “the rest of his life” floated through his mind like it was nothing at all. Like it was nothing more than mentally adding an item to the grocery list. 

He carries Timmy up the stairs and carefully lays him on their bed, cupping his hand behind Timmy’s head as he does so. Just to be safe. Timmy takes off his (Armie’s) hoodie and reveals soft thin large t-shirt and wriggles around amongst the duvet and pillows trying to get comfortable, his long limbs like noodles and his pelvis thrusting this way and that and Armie is sure, once again, he’s going to hell. 

He embraces it. If he’s going to hell might as well lean all the way in, right? Enjoy the ride and all that. He unbuttons his shirt and drops his trousers, both vaguely near the dry cleaning bag. He could probably get a wear or two out of them before sending them for cleaning but after his lunchtime washroom activities, he knows he won’t be able to wear them again to work and not feel totally mortified. 

He climbs into bed, pulling Timmy’s back into his chest and wrapping his arms around him. 

“Armie,” Timmy’s hoarse congested voice breaks him. “It’s only 8 PM, you can’t go to sleep now.”

“Shut up and let me hold you while you fall asleep,” Armie grumbles. He didn’t expect that Timmy would be so obstinate about being taken care of when sick. He hadn’t given it much thought before but if he had, he would have guessed that Timmy would be beyond that “pull yourself up by your bootstraps, don’t ask for help, your worth is measured by your productivity, be a man” nonsense. Armie considers what he’s like when he’s sick and admits to himself that he has been known to shut himself in his room and ignore all offers to get chicken soup from Greenblatt’s or the extra nice tissues with the lotion from the store from Liz and Nick and has, perhaps, on occassion, and more than once, shouted at them to “go the fuck away and leave me alone to die.” It’s just that he expected Timmy to be better than him. A younger, better, more evolved version of Armie. And maybe that’s just a bit of an unfair burden to place on Timmy’s narrow shoulders, that are currently hunched over coughing. 

Armie pulls back slightly to give him space while rubbing his palm in soothing circles on Timmy’s back. When the coughing fit ends, Timmy backs back up into Armie’s arms, wriggling his ass against Armie’s groin and now Armie can confidently say what happens next is not entirely his fault. 

One hand drops to Timmy’s hipbone, where it juts out above his loose fitting pajama bottoms, and he makes circles and traces abstract designs on the soft pale skin there and pushes his cock along the seam in the seat of those same pajama pants. He pulls Timmy closer to his chest with his other arm, relishing the heat and sweat from his body. He buries his nose in Timmy’s greasy matted curls and inhales. He can smell the faint smell of Timmy’s tea tree oil shampoo along with the musk of his sweat and another scent that is pure Timmy, a combination that defies articulation but if Armie had to put it to words it would be citrus and baby shampoo and fresh cut grass. He thrusts again against Timmy’s small pert bottom and he’s harder than he should be. Once Timmy feels him, he wriggles, which doesn’t help the growing situation in Armie’s boxer briefs. 

“Armieeeee,” Timmy attempts to whine but it comes out a little like a whistle. He coughs into his elbow. “I’m sick and gross.” 

“Mmmm,” Armie places soft, small open mouth kisses on the pale column Timmy gets away with calling his neck. “Not so much really.” He continues to kiss Timmy, laying them along the tops of his shoulders, thankful for the access the large t-shirt provides, and snaking his hand from Timmy’s hipbone into his pajama pants. Timmy continues to squirm but with less vigor in his resistance. “Let me take care of you,” Armie repeats one more time that night. “Let me make you feel good.” He feels Timmy relax into his embrace, letting Armie take charge of his well-being. 

Armie lifts his hand from where it had been very happy on Timmy’s skin and gropes blindly at the bedside table for the lube. He expertly flicks open cap one handed and slicks his fingers before reaching between their bodies, dipping below Timmy’s waistband, and gently dragging his fingers between Timmy’s cheeks, pulling Timmy closer to him when Timmy shivers slightly at the cold lube. He slowly and gently opens Timmy up, preparing him as though he were a souffle, starting with one finger, gently gently, enjoying the feeling of Timmy’s tight heat taking him in, joining them together. 

Timmy often enjoys a rough hurried “now now now I can’t wait, goddamnit Armie fuck me” preparation. Prefers it. But tonight, tonight Armie wants to take his time. Wants Timmy to be able to lie there and just allow Armie to help him feel good. 

Armie adds a second finger and resists the urge to pull back to watch his fingers disappear into Timmy’s body, sucking him in like he wants Armie, he _needs_ him, at his very core. Instead he continues to hold Timmy close against his body, limiting the range of motion of his hand, keeping his finger thrusting short, shallow thrusts, until he begins to scissor them. Timmy whines slightly but Armie ignores his pleas and adds a third finger, taking no risks at causing Timmy even that edge of pleasure-pain that often is a part of their fucking. 

Finally, when Armie feels he has opened and prepared Timmy as much as possible, and Timmy is a shaking mess of want, Armie pulls back slightly to slick his cock, hardly needing much lube giving how wet he is with pre-come. But he uses lube, more than necessary, so much that it will leak out of Timmy’s hole and drip down his balls. He lines up and pushes in and groans deep in his chest and knows Timmy can feel the vibrations in his back. Timmy’s head drops back onto Armie’s shoulder, twisting so they can kiss, Armie tasting the sickly sweet of the Gatorade in Timmy’s mouth. Timmy’s head drops back on Armie’s shoulder, sweetly vulnerable, trusting Armie to hold him close, hold him open, hold him and keep him safe. 

The position is an intimate one but it doesn’t allow for the deep hard thrusting that brings them both to the brink quickly. And Armie loves it. He can stay like this forever, inside Timmy, rocking them both gently back and forth, covering Timmy’s body nearly entirely with his own. Armie is reminded of the myth of the origin of love and how two lovers are really two halves of the same whole being that Zeus, in his rage, split apart. Joined together like this, wrapped up in one another, Armie finds himself believing in that myth, believing he is finally reunited with the rest of himself. 

Armie can stay like this forever, his cock massaged by the tight tight searing hotness in the core of Timmy. He can stay like this forever until he starts to feel that warmth coil deep in his belly, until that coil grows arms like tentacles like an octopus reaching up and reaching out from his belly spreading through his body. 

“Oh god oh fuck, Tim-Timmy,” he groans. 

Timmy whimpers and pushes back against Armie and reaches for the arm wrapped around his chest, bringing Armie’s hand down to his dick and Armie can take the hint. His hand flies over Timmy’s hard length, squeezing a bit at the head, just like he knows Timmy likes. He’s watched Timmy get himself off more times than he can count, it’s one of his favorite things - to lie there and watch Timmy fucking pleasure himself while he resists reaching out to touch, to participate, to be anything but an observer, and Armie is a quick study. 

Timmy’s hand finds its way to the back of Armie’s head and into his hair and he pulls as he moans and comes, his hot come coating Armie’s fist. Armie groans and pulls out gently, knowing that no matter how careful he is, it never feels pleasant. As Timmy lies there shaking from his orgasm, Armie takes himself in his hand and finishes off, coming on Timmy’s belly and hip bone and just the sight of that makes Armie moan and drop his head to Timmy’s shoulder. He tries to catch his breath but doing so while Timmy lies there utterly debauched, covered in Armie’s come, is like trying to take a deep breath while sprinting full out. He lies there panting until his brain comes fully back online and he goes to the bathroom to grab a warm damp washcloth and wipes the sweat and the come from Timmy’s body. He helps Timmy back into his pajamas as Timmy grows limp with sleep. By the time Armie is tucking the duvet around Timmy and kissing him on his nose, Timmy is snuffling tiny snores. 

Armie walks back downstairs and to the living room where Timmy was camped out that day. He brings the plate and glasses into the kitchen and loads the dishwasher. He finds some leftover Chinese food in the fridge, sniffs it and determines it’s within the range of still edible, he dumps the spoonfuls that remain in each of the cartons into one bowl and sticks it in the microwave. While that heats, he returns to the living room and picks up the blanket, shaking it out, and folding it over the back of the couch. He finds crumpled tissues between the couch cushions instead of pistachio shells. He collects them and throws them in the kitchen trash and washes his hands. He hears the food begin to sizzle and opens the door to the microwave before it bubbles over and makes a mess. He grabs a beer and sits at the kitchen table picking at all the pieces of the dishes that he and Timmy had initially eaten around. The water chestnuts that Timmy doesn’t like, the peanuts that Armie likes but finds jarring as a texture combined with a dish of mostly soft foods, big slices of carrots, and a random bok choy. Armie washes it all down with a final swallow of beer before cleaning up. He allows himself a second beer while he watches an episode of Brooklyn Nine Nine, the one where Rosa’s girlfriend tries to break up with her. Timmy loves this episode, loves Rosa, loves the comedian who plays her girlfriend. Armie quickly finishes his beer, lets out a burp that echoes too loudly in the silent house, and heads upstairs. 

Timmy is still wrapped up in the duvet, snuffling, and it doesn’t look like he’s moved an inch. Armie pulls his lips in between his teeth and runs a hand over his mouth to hide his smile in the dark room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is not lost on me that I wrote Timmy having the flu and I got the flu.

**Author's Note:**

> Your comments and kudos sustain me. 
> 
> thatajthings on tumblr


End file.
